The Commotion in the Commissary Affair
by otherhawk
Summary: Napoleon gets a chance to catch up with an old friend he hasn't seen in years. Unfortunately his old friend knows Illya too.


**A/N: So I went and bought the first season of the Man From UNCLE last weekend. And naturally, fic resulted. And this is for InSilva.**

 **A/N2: I know that this isn't technically an Affair...but the title scanned so well I just had to go with it.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognise.**

* * *

In this business the chance to catch up with old friends came along far too rarely. Far too often Napoleon found himself reading their obituaries instead. Meeting up with Rich Wakely in the middle of Jamaica, in a mission that had involved the CIA had been an unexpected pleasure – even more so when Rich had accompanied him back to New York to give a complete report. Debriefing over, they'd headed round to the commissary to catch up over lunch. Napoleon automatically took his usual seat – side on to the wall, facing most of the exits – and watched Rich slide into the seat opposite where Illya would normally sit – the seat that offered a view of all the room Napoleon couldn't see. No one had ever been attacked in the commissary to Napoleon's knowledge, but that didn't mean they shouldn't take precautions.

Illya was still out of the country, unfortunately, finishing up the Green Rail Affair in Leningrad. It had been over six weeks now, but hopefully he would be back soon. He disliked it when Illya was on the wrong side of the Iron Curtain; there were too many people who mistook his presence in America for defection. The mood out there could grow ugly on the turn of a dime.

He was pulled away from thoughts of his absent partner by the sound of Rich appreciatively tucking in to his steak. "This is fantastic," he declared. "You boys at UNCLE definitely eat better than we ever did at the CIA."

Napoleon smiled. "Only when we're home," he said. "Out in the field it's business as usual. A five star restaurant one night, the half-raw rabbit you killed yourself the next."

"Knowing you, Napoleon, it's probably more five-star restaurants than raw rabbits," Rich teased. "Do you remember that last night in Barcelona, when you managed to charge the lobster dinner directly to General Franco?"

That had been for sound operational reasons...and to supplement a truly woeful expense account. "That must have been, oh, seven years ago," he remembered with a smile. Just before he started working for UNCLE.

"The last time I saw you," Rich nodded.

"And Jack Marrs," he said. "Have you heard from him lately?"

Rich paused. "Dead," he said at last. "The two of us were sent to Berlin after you were reassigned. Supposedly we were chasing commies, but we spent most of our time chasing shadows. We knew we were up against some real professionals. It was almost two years before we got any kind of break. Some scientist was defecting – we lost him, but we got his notes. The perfect trap to catch our clever KGB friends, or so I thought." He paused for a long moment, brooding.

"It didn't work?" Napoleon asked.

"Oh, it worked," Rich said, with a short, humourless laugh. "We caught ourselves a little KGB rat." He sighed deeply. "You know, I remember being disappointed. I'd been hoping for a good result, and all we caught was one baby-faced red. I ended up feeling sorry for him, can you imagine? He looked scared to death. I even told Jack to go easy on him, that he was just a kid." He clenched his jaw tightly. "My mistake. They start them young over there. Brainwash them into being utterly ruthless. That 'kid' got free somehow, and knocked me over the head before stealing the scientists notes. He'd set explosives to cover his escape. I only realised later he must have set them _before_ we ever caught him. The whole building just collapsed in on itself. Jack barely got me out of time. And then he went chasing after the Russkie."

Napoleon winced. He could already tell the end of this story.

Rich's voice was flat. "I found him half an hour later. That bastard had gut shot him. He took over twelve hours to die and it wasn't pretty."

"Damn." Napoleon exhaled slowly. "I'm sorry. He was a good man." Jack had been a friend, of sorts. It was difficult to trust someone to watch your back and not feel some sort of warmth towards them. But he was worried by the depth of feeling apparent on Rich's face. After five years the raw anger seemed still too close to the surface. "So how did you get to Jamaica?" he asked, leaning back slightly, leaving himself open and unruffled.

Rich glanced at him a moment and laughed slightly. "I went there on the trail of a suspected concentration camp officer," he explained. "Somehow, I never quite got around to leaving. I love it there – this is my first trip back to the states in three years."

"It's a beautiful place," he agreed. "You know, I remember meeting a girl there..." He told the story and another one like it and he was pleased to see Rich looking a little easier, and then Rich told a tale of his own and they were laughing and smiling together, the shadow of Berlin left far behind.

He heard the familiar footsteps – Illya! - and turned and smiled to see his partner walking towards him, safe and well. "When did you get back?"

"A few hours ago," Illya answered. "There were a number of points raised in debriefing surrounding a new type of explosive I got to test extensively. Section IV finally let me go long enough to eat – I have been in THRUSH interrogations less - " He stopped abruptly staring behind Napoleon.

Conscious suddenly that Rich had stood up, Napoleon turned his head to see that Rich was pointing his gun straight at Illya's heart. Well. That was unexpected.

Silence fell gradually over the commissary. "You probably don't remember me, do you, _comrade,_ " Rich spat.

"As a matter of fact I remember you extremely well," Illya answered coolly.

"Rich, what's going on here?" Napoleon asked calmly, carefully taking advantage of the question to get to his feet, pushing his chair back against the wall. Someone would have raised the alarm by now, he knew, and out of the corner of his eye he could see the other two Section II agents who had happened to be in the commissary – Walter Lewis and Carl Brody – draw their guns and edge closer. They'd follow his lead at least. He had no wish to see his friend gunned down today. Either of them, for that matter.

"He's a Russian spy!" Rich snarled, not taking his eyes off Illya.

"That is certainly difficult to deny," Illya commented, his lips barely twitching.

"He's a spy who happens to be Russian," Napoleon cut in with the briefest of frustrated glances towards Illya. "He works for UNCLE. And he's moderately useful, so I would prefer if he remains in one piece."

"Thank you, Napoleon," Illya said dryly.

"He's the one who murdered Jack," Rich said, his voice raised in fury. "He shot him like a dog and left him to die in the gutter. I told you about him, Napoleon. He can't be trusted. I don't care if he's told you he's a defector - "

" - I'm not," Illya said coolly. "But as Napoleon has told you, I do work for UNCLE."

"We're an international organisation," Napoleon reminded Rich."Supported by twenty four countries around the world and employing agents of all nationalities. Now, why don't you put the gun down, Rich? You don't really want to do this."

Rich stood for a moment longer, breathing heavily and Napoleon was afraid he was going to pull the trigger. Then he exhaled sharply and tucked his gun away. "You can't trust him, Napoleon. He killed Jack." He sounded almost bewildered.

The door burst open and four Section III agents appeared, looking round sharply, their guns drawn.

Napoleon smiled his most charming smile. "Ah, the trouble is all over now," he promised. "I'm just escorting my friend out of the building. Immediately."

"Of course, Mr Solo." They dutifully put their guns away.

He reached out and grasped Rich lightly by the elbow. "Come along, my friend," he said, hastening him towards the door.

As they passed by Illya Napoleon saw a flicker of something in his eyes. Disappointment?

"I won't forget you, _comrade,_ " Rich hissed directly in Illya's face.

"No, I imagine not," Illya murmured. He sounded tired. Not that anyone else would pick it up, but to Napoleon, he sounded tired.

Standing outside, he turned a fierce glare on Rich. "You know, if they had arrived thirty seconds earlier, they would have shot you. What were you thinking?"

"What are _you_ thinking?" Rich returned sharply. "How can you stand working with him, knowing what he's done? He wants to destroy everything you care about."

His lips quirked briefly. "Only my wardrobe," he said, remembering a few too many jackets and ties whose destruction had somehow been vital for the plan.

"You can't trust him," Rich insisted, grabbing his arm, his fingers digging in emphatically.

"I can and I do," Napoleon said evenly and he walked back inside.

Trust? Trust was easy. Beyond any question. He knew that Illya's loyalty lay absolutely with UNCLE and with him personally. But when he thought about Jack, when he thought about how Jack had _died..._ there was a tightness in his stomach that didn't go away.

Carl Brody was standing in the corner with two of the girls from records. None of them seemed to notice Napoleon going past, or at least they didn't make any effort to lower their voices, hushed whispers that were somehow still too loud and too curious.

"Do you think it's true?"

"I checked. Jack Marrs was shot in the stomach by the KGB five years ago. The timing fits."

"He didn't deny it."

"And he did say he wasn't a defector."

"He's always so cold."

"It makes you think, doesn't it?" Carl said slowly. "I mean, I've always known he was a Soviet, but to know that he actually killed one of _us..._ "

One of us. Right. And if they were suddenly _us_ then that meant Illya had somehow become one of _them._

Troubled, he walked into the office he shared with Illya to discover his partner sitting behind what looked like half a roast chicken. Huh.

"Apparently having a gun pointed at one is the only known way to circumvent the rules about taking food out of the commissary," he explained in response to Napoleon's look.

He nodded and closed the door. "I'm sorry about that, Illya."

"Don't be," Illya said with a shrug. "It had been almost fourteen hours since someone had last pointed a gun at me. I was starting to miss it."

"So how was Leningrad?" he asked.

"Full of snow and soldiers," Illya said. "How was Kingston?"

"Full of sun and beautiful women," he smiled.

"Of course it was," Illya said resignedly. "And you met your...friend, Agent Wakely out there?"

"That's right," he agreed. "He was very helpful."

"I suppose it is a good thing I wasn't with you on this occasion then," Illya said, eating his chicken morosely.

"Probably." He paused for a long moment. "It would have been easier if you could have denied it."

Illya's eyes were cold. "Yes. It would, wouldn't it? You could have got the gun away from him. You were in the right position."

He had been. And he hadn't really considered it. "I knew he wasn't going to shoot you," he explained. "But if I'd grabbed him, he might have pulled the trigger out of reflex." And they'd been surrounded by other UNCLE agents.

"Yes." Illya said remotely. They both knew that in other circumstances Napoleon would have taken the chance. They'd both disarmed someone safely a hundred times in the past. But not this time, and there was a question hovering in the air.

The intercom broke the tension. "Mr Kuryakin, you're urgently needed in laboratory B."

Illya stood. "Round two of the interrogation," he said dryly. He walked to the door and paused, looking back. "Napoleon...I am sorry about your friend." He left.

"Yes," Napoleon said aloud to the empty room. "So am I."

* * *

He spent the rest of the day fighting with paperwork. Illya didn't come back to the office, even though Napoleon lingered as long as he could. He tried calling him in the evening as well, but Illya didn't pick up. For a moment he considered going over, but Illya was probably just out. He tried calling Rich at his hotel as well, but there was no answer there either. Hopefully they weren't out trying to kill each other.

Spies clashed. He'd had more than a few close encounters with the security services in Spain for a start, but he didn't resent his fellow UNCLE agents from Spain. They all worked together to protect the world. That should be the only thing that mattered. That _was_ the only thing that mattered. If he'd simply heard that Illya had had a run in with MI6 say, while working for the KGB he would have thought nothing of it. This only bothered him because it was personal, and that was hypocritical of him.

And he was the only one who had that excuse. Which meant that when he walked into the commissary for breakfast the next morning and saw that despite how busy it was there was a wide bubble of empty seats surrounding their usual table he had every right to be disappointed. Illya was sitting with a mug of coffee, apparently unaffected, except that he was sitting in Napoleon's usual seat.

He took his breakfast over and sat in the seat opposite without hesitation. "Good morning," he said, maybe talking just a little louder than he needed to. Nobody was obviously listening, but in the circumstances he'd have to be a fool not to think that people were interested.

"Good morning, Napoleon," Illya said. "You don't normally come here for breakfast. No date to impress with your cooking skills this morning?"

"I only got back in the country yesterday morning," he pointed out.

"It doesn't normally take you that long," Illya remarked innocently. "Perhaps your powers are waning."

"Perhaps." He could have had a date had he wanted, of course. But he hadn't felt like he'd be particularly good company last night. When he was on a date, he preferred to give her his undivided attention. His eyes flickered around the room. "Has anyone been giving you trouble?" he asked in an undertone. There had been a certain amount of suspicion when Illya had first started working for UNCLE, which Illya had long since managed to dispel simply by being himself. Napoleon would hate to see that start again.

"No," Illya said, taking a long sip of his coffee. "They are simply wary. Just as you are, Napoleon."

Ouch. "It's not - " he started to explain

" - I know," Illya cut in, effectively silencing him. He downed his coffee and stood up abruptly. "I'll see you later," he said and he walked off.

That hadn't exactly gone as well as he'd hoped. He heard the gentle swell of hushed conversation around the room. It seemed the gossip network was going into overdrive. In the corner, he could see Carl Brody holding forth to a large group of Section III and IV agents. He didn't have to strain his ears to pick up the topic of their conversation. And he didn't care one bit for the frown of open mistrust on Carl's face.

He wondered; could he get away with punching Carl in the nose if he invited him for a sparring match? It wouldn't do anything to silence the speculation, but it might just make him feel a bit better.

* * *

'Later' never quite materialised. At first he assumed Illya was avoiding him, until he was called into a meeting with Mr Waverley about the ongoing security arrangements for the upcoming conference on the nuclear testing treaty.

"You will need to go over the venues with a fine toothcomb," Mr Waverley instructed him. "The dummy venue must be absolutely indistinguishable from the real thing."

He nodded. "I'll take Illya," he said. A second pair of eyes rarely hurt...and it might just give them a chance to talk that Illya couldn't walk away from.

Mr Waverley paused in the act of lighting his pipe. "Ah, that's quite impossible, I'm afraid," he said sounding a touch regretful. "I'm afraid Mr Kuryakin is currently on assignment in Montana. We have reason to believe THRUSH have infiltrated an observatory there."

"I wasn't aware," he said slowly. As head of Section II, the assignments of other Section II agents usually crossed his desk. "A THRUSH base? Illya only got back yesterday." Normally agents were given at least a couple of days between major assignments. And maybe they were the exception to that rule more often than not, but even so, he'd normally be with Illya if that happened. He tried to think of any way of saying _'You could have sent me too'_ that didn't sound like a small boy complaining about losing his playmate.

"Mr Kuryakin is more than capable," Mr Waverley said, making it sound like a gentle chide. "And I sent Mr Brody with him, to be certain."

"Carl Brody?" Napoleon's mouth was suddenly dry.

"Yes," Mr Waverley agreed. "Another very capable agent, as you are aware, Mr Solo. Is there some problem with that?"

It wasn't within the realms of possibility that Mr Waverley wasn't completely aware of everything that had happened yesterday. Napoleon generally found it safest to assume that Mr Waverley was completely aware of _everything._ And that meant this was no doubt part of some clever scheme. "No, sir," he said therefore. "No problem at all."

Just as Mr Waverley said, Carl Brody was an experienced and capable agent, absolutely loyal to UNCLE. And Illya was certainly more than capable of looking after himself. There was no reason for him to worry. No reason at all.

* * *

Rich was heading back to Kingston the next day, so Napoleon agreed to meet him that night. No matter what else was going on, his thoughts on meeting up with old friends still held true. He just hoped that Rich would be willing to talk about anything _other_ than Illya, but of course he'd always known that was a forlorn hope.

"You can't trust a commie," Rich insisted, sitting in the hotel bar. "It doesn't matter how you dress it up, that's what it comes down to. They don't think the way we do. They don't _feel_ the way we do. You know if it came down to it, he'd choose the Soviet cause over you and UNCLE every time."

Who would ever have thought that he'd find himself, however indirectly, defending Communism over Martinis in a five star hotel right in the middle of New York. "I've worked with Illya for five years," he said. "I know exactly how he thinks, far better than you do. And he's out there, right now, defending America from the enemies of the world."

"We have a Red defending America," Rich said. "That's hardly going to help me sleep better at night. He's killed Americans, Napoleon."

"So have I," Napoleon pointed out. "If it comes to that, I've killed Russians, Italians, Brazilians, and one angry Finn."

"He killed Jack," Rich said, voice raw.

Napoleon paused for a long moment. "I know," he said at last gently. "And I wish Jack was alive. But he knew what he was getting into, just like the rest of us. He might just as easily have killed Illya." And that would have been before Napoleon ever met Illya, so in one sense it would never have mattered to him. In every other sense, it would have mattered terribly.

"I never figured you for a commie sympathiser, Napoleon," Rich said disappointment and disgust dripping from every word.

"Oh, I'm hardly that," Napoleon said, absently rubbing his thumb across the sleeve of his two hundred dollar suit. "But I do have a sympathetic turn of mind. Ask anyone."

"I think I'd better go," Rich said, throwing a handful of bills down on the table. "I've got an early flight in the morning. And it seems like my friend has changed into someone I don't even want to share a drink with."

"Rich..." Napoleon protested, but he could immediately see that it was useless. As long as he refused to condemn Illya, this friendship was unsalvageable. He leaned forwards. "Illya is my partner and my friend," he said simply. "I don't share all his beliefs, and he doesn't share all mine. That doesn't change anything. And I'm sorry that things had to end this way. I enjoyed working with you, Rich."

"Likewise," Rich said reluctantly. "Goodbye, Napoleon."

"Goodbye," Napoleon echoed. He doubted they'd meet again.

* * *

Three days went by and Napoleon brought flowers to Sophia in communications every day, and asked whether Illya and Carl had made their daily check in. Everything seemed to be going fine until the fourth day, when Sophia sighed and shook her head before he'd even asked the question. Missing one check in wasn't something to be worried over, though. There was a hundred reasons why that could happen. When they missed the fifth day as well, though...

Agents going missing wasn't, sadly, new. But it did dim the mood in UNCLE headquarters just a little. Napoleon, of course, smiled and acted the way he always did. His concerns were his own business.

He overheard Walter Lewis talking to Mary-Lou in medical. She and Carl had been on a few dates, if Napoleon recalled correctly.

"You know Carl's tough," Walter said. "Whatever's going on, he'll get through it fine. And besides, Kuryakin's with him. That guy's practically indestructible. He'll take care of Carl."

She nodded bravely. "You're right, of course."

Napoleon smiled humourlessly. Of course; the easiest way of reminding everyone that they were a team. Reminding them that the common enemy didn't care about their nationalities.

It was a relief to be called into Mr Waverley's office. "Mr Solo, I imagine you are aware that Mr Kuryakin and Mr Brody are missing."

"Yes, Mr Waverley," he agreed.

"Mr Kuryakin's last communication suggested there might be more to this move by THRUSH than we first thought," Mr Waverley went on. "He had discovered the observatory is receiving a great deal of suspicious material. You will fly there immediately, discover what is going on, and put a stop to it."

"Of course," he said instantly. There was nothing he wanted more.

"Retrieving Mr Kuryakin and Mr Brody is not a priority," Mr Waverley told him shrewdly and paused for a moment. "But if you do happen to come across them..."

"I'll bring them home," Napoleon nodded. "If I happen to find them."

The truth was, if Mr Waverley didn't want Illya and Carl rescued, he would send another agent. He trusted Napoleon to be able to do both. And Napoleon certainly had no intention of disappointing.

* * *

He saw the observatory explosion from the road; the flames made bright colours against the Montana sky. Well. He smiled to himself. He could probably assume that Illya had been alive within the last hour at least. Of course, that didn't mean he hadn't got caught in the explosion himself. His smile faded a little, and he kept his foot down as he drove up the long winding road towards whatever was left of the THRUSH base.

Turning a sharp corner, he saw the car stopped by the side of the road, and he registered the two figures in THRUSH guard uniforms sitting on the hood and drew his gun before he recognised Illya and Carl.

The relief was just a little bit more than he'd ever admit, even to himself.

"Good morning, Napoleon," Illya said, as he got out of the car. "You're late."

"Well, I'm sorry," he said, not trying to hide the smile. "I'm afraid I decided to stop for coffee." There were bruises on Illya's face, and Carl's arm was in a make-shift sling, but beyond that, they both appeared fine. "I see you weren't in need of a rescue anyway."

"Not from THRUSH, no" Illya said. "From cars that run out of gas? Yes. Apparently THRUSH are now doing so badly they don't keep their cars filled up."

Napoleon smiled. "Possibly they're just so used to us escaping by now that they decided to try and stop making it easy."

"I wouldn't call it 'easy'," Illya said dryly.

"You missed the fireworks," Carl said, pointing over his shoulder. He was sitting close by Illya and looked completely relaxed. Whatever they'd been through had apparently been enough to remind him of Illya's good intentions.

"I saw from the road," Napoleon said. "The THRUSH base?"

"Completely destroyed," Illya said, smiling sharply. "Although we will need a clean-up crew there to be sure it is no longer dangerous. They were in the process of setting up a chemical weapons plant."

"I'll call our local office in Missoula," Napoleon nodded. "They should be able to block off the roads and send someone out within the hour."

"Good," Illya said satisfied. Then he held out his hand. "Pay up," he said.

With much grumbling, Carl pulled some bills out of his pocket and handed them over.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "You bet on me turning up?" he guessed.

Illya shook his head. "I bet we wouldn't have to walk back," he explained.

"Ah." He looked at Carl. "Never bet against him, trust me. He cheats, and he's a sore loser."

Carl grinned. "I know. But he has his good points."

Napoleon nodded satisfied. There was enough genuine fondness in Carl's tone for him to trust that all the suspicion had melted away. And he had a feeling that Carl had voiced that deliberately.

"If you have both quite finished lambasting my character," Illya said dryly. "I think it is time we headed back to New York."

"Sounds good to me," he said cheerfully. With any luck, Mr Waverley would be pleased enough with the destruction of the base that they'd earn a few days downtime.

* * *

He wasn't entirely surprised when Illya knocked on his door that evening. And by 'not entirely surprised', he meant he had already set the table for two.

"Come in," he said with a smile. The bruises on Illya's face were less swollen than they had been that morning, but they were still vividly coloured and spreading.

Illya nodded and walked in. "Berlin," he said abruptly, standing in the middle of Napoleon's living room. "There had already been an interlude with some jump leads and a car battery. And there was some discussion about my fingers and a claw hammer, but I suspect that was just a bluff."

"I hope so," he said tiredly. He wasn't entirely surprised by this revelation either, but he preferred to think that his old friends had some lines they wouldn't cross.

"I do not want you to think that there was not something on both sides," Illya said earnestly.

"I didn't think that," he said. "That wasn't my problem. Do you want a drink?"

"Thank you," Illya said, crossing to the table with the ease of long familiarity and reaching for the vodka Napoleon kept there specially. "Scotch for you?"

"I brought some rum back from Kingston," Napoleon said. "I thought we might share it together."

Illya turned slowly and looked at him. "Is that a political statement?"

He shrugged. "It's a bottle of rum."

There was a nod and a slight laugh. "I don't particularly care for rum."

"Neither do I," Napoleon said evenly.

"Oh, then it definitely has some deeper meaning," Illya said, but he poured it anyway.

It didn't taste any better than it had before, but he sipped and waited.

"There was smoke everywhere," Illya said after a moment. "I could hear him running after me. I had my orders to retrieve the notes at any cost. My hands were still shaking from the electric shocks. I could hardly see. When I fired, it was more or less blindly. I heard him cry out, but I didn't find out till much later that he had died." He sighed. "I won't tell you I wasn't trying to kill him, that would be exceedingly disingenuous of me. But if that had been my intention, I would have wanted it to be a clean kill. You know that."

"Of course I do," Napoleon assured him. "As I said, that wasn't my problem."

"I know," Illya acknowledged. "I am fairly certain, this is one of the reasons why Mr Waverley says spies shouldn't have friends."

"Perhaps he's right," Napoleon said. He waited a moment. "But the lasagne is nearly done, and there is tiramisu in the fridge. If you make the salad, I'll fix more drinks, and we'll try to forget we're spies for the evening."

Illya smiled. "You do have all the best plans, Napoleon."

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading, this is my first Man from UNCLE fic, so I'd love it if you took a moment to review**


End file.
